Cody McFadyen - The Face of Death

He looked at his watch. "It's twelve-ten."

"Well, see then, silly? We leave at twelve-thirty. That wasn't so hard now, was it?"

He laughed, he couldn't help himself.

"Fine," he said, shaking his head. "I'll let the beasts out and get the munchkin ready."

The "beasts" were their two black Labrador retrievers, known affectionately as the "Black Forces of Destruction," or, as Sarah often referred to them: "Puppyheads!" They were two sixty-pound bundles of largely untrained love and loyalty, savages, unfit for civilized company.

Sam opened up the baby-gate that he'd erected as a barrier to keep the beasts out of the rest of the house, and was rewarded with an immediate nose in his butt.

"Thanks, Buster," he said to the smaller male.

No problem, Buster replied, wagging his tail and smiling an openmouthed dog-smile. The larger female, Doreen, was circling him like a mentally disturbed person, or maybe a shark, asking the same silent but obvious question, over and over and over.

Is it time yet? Is it time yet? Is it time yet?

"Sorry, Doreen," he said as she continued to circle him. "It's going to be a late lunch today. But . . ." He paused, giving her an exaggerated, expectant look. "If you guys go outside, I might give you a treat !"

At the word treat, Doreen launched herself into the air like a pogo stick, all four legs off the ground, a spontaneous and full-body expression of ultimate joy. Hooray! she seemed to be saying. Hooray, Hooray, Hooray!

"I know," Sam said, grinning. "Dad is good, Dad is great."

He walked over to the cupboard and fished out a couple of MilkBones. Doreen continued to launch herself into the air, now truly overjoyed. Buster was not a jumper, he preferred to comport himself with a little more dignity, but he was looking pretty happy.

"Come on, guys and gals," Sam said and headed toward the sliding glass door that led into the backyard.

He opened it and stepped through. The beasts followed. He closed the door and stood, a treat in each hand.

"Sit," he said.

They sat. Their eyes had achieved missile-lock on the treats. "Sit"

was one of the few things they were trained to do. They would only do it if a promise of food was involved.

He lowered his hands so that they were level with the dogs' heads.

"Wait," he cautioned. If they tried to take the treats before "wait" was done, he'd make them "wait" even longer, something that was pretty unpopular. "Wait," he said, again. Doreen was quivering and starting to look a little bit crazy-eyed. Sam took mercy on her and issued the word they were waiting for: "Okay."

Two muzzles full of teeth leapt toward the treats in his hands, somehow grabbing the Milk-Bones without taking fingers along with them. Sam used this distraction to open the sliding glass door and step back into the house, closing it behind him.

Buster figured it out first. He stopped mid-crunch and looked at Sam through the glass, betrayal in his eyes.

You're abandoning us? he seemed to be asking.

"See you soon, buddy," Sam murmured, smiling.

Time to look for the other beast that lived in this house. He was pretty sure she was hiding. Sarah wasn't too keen on the dentist. Sam secretly agreed with her on this. He always felt just a little bit guilty when they took her to one of her medical appointments, knowing that it would invariably end in tears. He admired Linda's cool head and practicality in these matters. Pain for the child's greater good, the province of Mom. Not a strength for most fathers.

"Munchkin?" he called out. "You ready?"

No answer.

Sam moved toward Sarah's room. The door was open. He peeked his head in and saw his daughter sitting on her bed. She was clutching Mr. Huggles in her arms.

"Sweetheart?" he asked.

The little girl turned her eyes to him and stole away his heart. Woe, woe, those eyes said, expressive as a baby seal's. Woe to have parents that make you go to the dentist . . .

Mr. Huggles, a monkey made from socks, stared at Sam with accusing eyes.

"I don't want to go to the dennist, Daddy," Sarah said, mournful.

"Den- tist, honey," he replied. "And no one likes going."

"Well then why do they?"

The perfect logic of a child, he thought.

"Because if you don't take care of your teeth, you might lose them. Not having any teeth is no fun."

He watched his child mull this over, really think about it.

"Can Mr. Huggles come?" she asked.

"Of course he can."

Sarah sighed, still not happy, but resigned to her fate. "Okay, Daddy," she said.

"Thanks, babe." He glanced at his watch. Perfect timing to the end of these negotiations. "Let's you, me, and Mr. Huggles go find Mommy."

In contrast to the drama that preceded it, the visit to the "dennist's"

office had been short and uneventful. Sarah's guarded suspicion had finally given way to smiles under the onslaught of Dr. Hamilton's unending joviality. He'd even examined Mr. Huggles. This had led to a celebratory mood for the family, which had led to ice cream and a trip to the beach. It was nearly three in the afternoon by the time they returned home. The beasts forgot to be unhappy about being fed so late because they were just so darn happy about being fed now. There was some obligatory petting, the getting of the mail, the technical brilliance of setting up the shows to record for the evening. Sam called it "the arrival dance." It was the checklist you went through each time you left for more than a few hours and came back. The details of living. Some men, he knew, complained about it. He loved it. It was comforting, it was right, it was his.

"You ready for tomorrow, Sarah?" he heard his wife ask. Tomorrow was Sarah's birthday. The question was rhetorical. He winced at the squeal that came from his daughter's mouth. An earsplitting, semi-alien screech.

"Presents, party, cake!" she cried, jumping up and down in excitement. It was very reminiscent of Doreen earlier, Sam mused. The dog and his daughter had disturbing similarities at times.

"Don't jump on the couch, munchkin," he murmured as he looked through the mail.

"Sorry, Daddy."

A certain poised feel to the silence that followed made him glance over at his daughter. He braced himself when he saw the look in her eyes. Exuberant mischief. The promise that a mildly destructive act was about to happen.

"But," she giggled, a psychotic leprechaun, "can I jump on you ?"

She let out a squeal that was the sound of a pig being murdered and launched herself into the air, coming down on him like a pillow filled with goose down and rocks.

He "ooofed" a little. More than I did a year ago, he thought to himself. Someday soon his days as a human trampoline would be over for good. He'd miss it.

Sarah was still small enough for now. He grinned and wrapped his arms around her.

"Zo . . ." he said, faking an exaggerated German accent and a sinister voice, "you know vat zis means . . . yes ?"

He felt her freeze, quivering and giggling in delight and terror. She knew what was coming.

"It means zat ve will haf to resort to . . . tickle torture !"

The torture began, and there was more squealing, and Doreen started barking and leaping around while the long-suffering Buster looked on.

Silly humans and a stupid dog, he seemed to be saying.

"Not so loud," Linda Langstrom warned with a smile, watching as her husband and daughter dissolved into playful chaos. It was halfhearted. Don't blow, wind, she might as well be saying. The truth was that she shared in their delight. Sam was always so peaceful and practical, the calm to her storm. It's not that he was stiff--Sam had a dry humor that never failed to make her laugh, a way of seeing the comedy of life--but he had a certain . . . quietness. A tendency, not to take himself seriously, but to get serious. And yet he was always willing to toss that aside for his family. He sure tossed it aside when he proposed to her.